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PS 3537 
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1921 

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Jongs of a Lifetime 




Songs of a lifetime 



(PARTIAL COLLECTION) 
BY 

LYNAS C. SEAL 



Rhymed Rest Between the Hours of Toil 



^!^ 



In the twilight, look and listen: 
There are sounds and weaves that glisten. 
Dreams and old familiar faces; 
Lights, and love in lowly places. 



^^ 



THE EVENING REPUBLICAN PRESS 

Columbus, Indiana 



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Copyrighted, 1921 

BY 

LYNAS C. SEAL 



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INDEX 

Page No. 

An Autumn Twilight 24 

A Holiday 43 

A Man Now 16 

A Pioneer Horseless Carriage 31 

A Poet's Faith 26 

A Prayer 48 

A Quartet of Mercy 34 

A Winter Lullaby 36 

Baby Maxine 40 

Careering 45 

Columbus 3 

Compensation 33 

Eartli's Heavenly Ties 19 

"Everybody Loves a Lover" 18 

Fidelity 44 

Grief 23 

Gourds 17 • 

Hoosier Bananas 5 

Imperial Night 39 

Intermission 4 

Impediments ' 29 

Inseparable 21 

Little Wild Heart 15 

Love In a Bungalow 25 

Marion 30 

My Sweetheart 8 

Orient Delight 10 

Orinoco 9 

Our Occidental Habit 32 

Raus Mit Tm 7 

Reba 38 

Sing Low, My Muse 1 

Song Perfect 2 

To An Old Coat 12 

The Boys in Khaki 28 

The Darkest Hour is Just Before the Dawn 27 

The Gift of Gifts 22 

The Irwin Garden 41 

The Riley Touch 11 

The Little Poet 6 

The Stranded Delegate 42 

To the Bridegroom 20 

To a Subterranean Flower 35 

Transition 47 

The Unfinished Tidy 37 

When Ernestine Looks Prettiest 46 

Willie Brown's Sweetheart 14 

"With All Thy Faults" 13 



Not how faultless arid exalted 

Bid how tnithful and siyicere. 

—L. C. S. 



SING LOW, MY MUSE. 

Sing low, my Muse, oh, let thy song 
Flow liquid, rich and clear. 

Nor let its strains be very long 
But to the heart most dear; 

And, oh, let every note be sweet 

To its true measure set complete. 

Release the thrills of winding streams 
And hills that from them rise; 

Melt into them the star-lit dreams 
Of bright and mellow skies; 

Within my heart I charge thee, though 

My faithful Muse, thou sing them low. 

By chance we might be overheard — 

Sing true thine every air; 
The sweetest singing woodland bird 

Is not heard everywhere. 
But, like his song, let thine be dear, 
Serenely pure and heart-sincere. 

July 2, 1907. 



SONG PERFECT. 

I sang a song in -woodland dell 
When earth was all a-bloom; 

Through artless art within it fell 
One minor chord of gloom; 

O'er head in answer robin sang 

And true and far his music rang 
Immaculate, Immaculate. 

Beside an ever faithful stream, 

Mid by-paths ever dear, 
I sang again, but in my dream. 

Let fall a note of fear; 
Without a note foreboding ill, 
Brave robin echoed with a will, 
"Immaculate, Immaculate." 

Shall I not sing this perfect day, 
Imperfect though my strain, 

Loose every note that haunts my lay, 
In human heart refrain? 

Shall I know where the strain be rent 

So long as robin sings content, 
"Immaculate, Immaculate." 

Nov. 28, 1909. 



COLUMBUS. 

Down along the Driftwood valley 
On an east bank high and dry, 

Lies a sparkling little city 

'Neath a patch of Hoosier sky. 

She's the home of thrift and spirit- 
Aye for better, ne'er for worse — 

Rightly credited the center 
Of the western universe. 

Fed and happy, souls ten thousand 
Glide serenely through her streets; 

Meeting, passing, each civilian 

Warm the worthy stranger greets. 

She's the namesake of "Columbus" — 
There is something in the name 

For Columbus like the sailor. 
Has a world-enduring fame. 

Down along the Driftwood valley 
With Jehovah's banner high 

Lies the city of Columbus 

'Neath a patch of Hoosier sky. 

June, 1906. 



INTERMISSION. 

Now that methinks I read the tracings 

Of Time's router on your brow, 
And know what mean these silver lacings 

In your hair, whereof and how, 
I'm sure life's thread is waxing brittle 

While your heart burns with desire — 
You're weary, let us rest a little 

That we may less quickly tire. 

Would we elect the consummation 

Of the journey past Death Inn. 
We must not hurry t'ward the station, 

Heart of hearts, if we would win. 
What work we do is scarce a tittle 

When we urge our feet in vain — 
We're tiring, let us rest a little, 

'Morrow's night will net us gain. 
January 19, 1914. 



HOOSIER BANANAS. 

October! Month of dear delights! 

Full-handed, laughing back at June 
Across the empty days and nights, 

She chants the praise of Harvest Moon. 
I sing of vales and quiet dales. 

Of pawpaw thickets by the brook 
Where, in the night, unseared regales 
A 'possum in some crannied nook 
Eating a pawpaw 
Plain, homely pawpaw. 
Ripe, mellow pawpaw, 
Down by the brook. 

Indulgent memory and fond 

Prompts feelings I would fain express, 
So dear, so gracious is the bond 

Of youth and age; in thankfulness 
To you I bring with carolling 

The vision back to which I look— 
A lad in jeans hard by the spring 
A-robbing 'possum of his nook. 
Eating a pawpaw. 
Large-seeded pawpaw, 
Gold-meated pawpaw, 
Down by the brook. 

Denude the hills, lay bare the dells 

Till not a ripened falling nut 
Is heard; nor thickets cast their spells 

Of warbled song or solace, but 
My fancy's pale surrounds the vale 
Of pawpaw thickets by the brook 
Where, in the night, unseared regale 
Opossums in some crannied nook. 
Eating big pawpaws, 
Russet-rind pawpaws, 
Sweet, molten pawpaws, 
Down by the brook. 

October 16, 1910. 



THE LITTLE POET, 

Who doth make the child a song — 

The little poet — 
One to cherish long and long 
Though the wind blow right or wrong? 

The little poet. 
Child life in its rapture brings 
Stories of enraptured things 
And doth mount when given wings 

By the little poet. 

Who doth aid youth's struggling flight— 

The little poet — 
Sends it searching through the night 
Winging upward to the light? 

The little poet. 
Questing low it sees defined 
God's true purposes divined 
By the wayside through mind 

Of the little poet. 

Who doth entertain the man — 

The little poet — 
Rooted, grounded in his plan, 
Delving as none other can? 

The little poet. 
Songs that breathe the happy part 
Drown the frenzy of the mart 
In recesses of the heart — 

Blessings, little poet. 

—January 28, 1915. 



"RAUS MIT 'IM." 



(Reflections for the Kaiser.) 
I wouldn't be a kaiser if 

The job were offered me 
With guards galore of all the rift- 

Raff of foul Germany; 
I have a conscience that is worth 

More than the land and sea 
And kaisership of all the earth 

Up till Eternity. 

I wouldn't be a kaiser for 

I couldn't make a slave 
Of any mortal born of Thor 

And "strafe" him to the grave; 
My conscience loves equality, 

Would lift up, not deprave; 
It loves a saner polity — 

My subjects I would save. 

I wouldn't be a kaiser and 

Indulge in beastly revel 
And other stunts of brutal brand, 

That pale and cringe the devil; 
I'd rather be a Cherokee 

And roam the barren plains, 
A horned toad or stingaree 

Without a bit of brains. 

I wouldn't be a kaiser — Why? 

I've said so "why" enough 
Although I have a hot supply 

Of this same kind of stuff; 
I love my freedom of the West 

Where men make friends of man; 
Love all that God has made and blest 

And called American. 

December 20, 1917. 



MY SWEETHEART. 

My sweetheart's eyes are rarest blue, 
Her lips are red, her heart Is true; 
Her hair is silk made golden brown, 
Her neck is snow of eiderdown, 
Her teeth are pearls of India town. 

She tells me all her dear heart knows 
In proof of all the love she shows; 
Each day — it does not matter whether 
It be of sun or stormy weather — 
Somehow, somewhere we get together. 

Her voice is low, her touch is light — 
True lovers loving keep from sight — 
My face rests in her gold-brown hair 
While we embrace, a happy pair. 
Exchanging love with share on shore. 

I pray this love I claim as mine 
May ne'er be less nor less divine. 
But hark! A voice calls earnestly — 
She's coming now in baby glee — 
"Oh, pap-paw, pap-paw, tak-ee me." 

January 4, 1918. 



ORINOCO 

From a few simple cottages, rapidly grown 
To a nice little town through a zeal of her own, 
She stretches away to the brink of the stream 
And gleams like a star in a mid-summer dream. 

With thoroughfares running 'neath low, shady trees 
That filter the sunlight and fondle the breeze, 
And velvety lawns beaming up to the street. 
She offers the weary a peaceful retreat. 

She holds all the charms of the pastoral lanes 
Where Natui-e is full and where quietude i^eigns 
Save the hum of the shaft and the murmur of steam 
So mighty — yet mild as the sigh of a dream. 

The lark tunes his lyre on the housetop at morn 
As free as he did when he dwelt in the corn; 
He vies in ascent with the factory smoke 
And leads the race heavenward many a stroke. 

Oh! ye who would dwell in Utopian vale, 
Or covet a draught from the long-hidden grail, 
Your hopes of desire all abide by the stream 
Reflecting the skies of her radiant dream. 

May 19, 1907. 



ORIENT DELIGHT. 

The solstice spreads within my far-flung walls 
Of space June's mantle, and the sun's gold wedge 
Of light cleaves off the dark horizon's edge 

The day; in hallowed benediction falls 

Each bent ray of the east — the day enthralls 

Not more. My sheer hope-nestlings quickly fledge, 
Pursue my orient delight and pledge 

Me dreams that habitate Elysian halls. 

Upon my low, east step I sit and read 
My poet; in the soft, refracted light 

Comes clear his subtle meanings. Now I know 
The sun has slipped below night's rim and freed 
The day and me— my book-page grows less bright— 
Within me burns the ceaseless afterglow. 

—Feb. 5, 1914. 



10 



THE RILEY TOUCH. 

The Riley touch! If you but draw a-near 
You feel It clasp you, hold you fondly thrall; 
You say: "Thus bind me ever; over all 
My destinies preside." It renders clear 
Your view like that of mountain atmosphere; 

The Pixies frolic in your path and crawl 
Up dizzy hights at merest beck or call — 
You hear rare sounds that moved our poet's ear. 

A keener retrospect invests your youth; 

The hard past mellows in the bloom of June: 
The veil of Heaven lifts; the boundless peace 
And joy of two worlds blend in common truth — 
The Riley touch! It wakes your heart a-tune; 
You see your own life wrought in golden fleece. 



Dec. 21, 1912. 



TO AN OLD COAT. 

In glad surprise 

Before my eyes 

Float memories of brighter skies 

When I, with you 

Of spotless hue, 

Disported with old friends and new. 

The rummage sought 

And often caught 

Full many a weave more deftly wrought; 

Yet, mark the day 

I stowed away 

Your fraying form for new array. 

Fleet time and change 

Oft rearrange 

Old loves that they do not estrange; 

On years remote 

And you I dote, 

My obsolete and faded coat. 

December 31, 1910. 



"WITH ALL THY FAULTS." 

Through thorn-set stem the sap creeps up 
And steeps the folds of a flower-cup 
Till summer's sunlight doth disclose 
The charm and fragrance of the rose; 
I pluck her with a prickly thrill 
But, with her fault, I love her still. 

The bee goes forth among the flowers 
Improving all the daylight hours 
And brings his treasures home a-wing 
Though warns me back with deadly sting; 
He serves me well with constant will 
And, with his fault, I love him still. 

But thou are human, friend, I know. 
And life is more than outward show; 
Thou hast all passions of the heart 
To pierce my soul like a deadly dart 
But greater is thy constant will — 
"With all thy faults I love thee still." 

—Feb. 28, 1908 



13 



WILLIE BROWN'S SWEETHEART. 

Oh, a dear little thing she is spoiling with praise, 
An astute, tiny creature with city-bred ways, 
So much like a big dolly just bought off the shelf 
One would think she were almost a dolly herself — 
Just a bundle of fiuffery, feathers and down 
And the city-bred sweetheart of dear Willie Brown. 

She goes out to the country to see Willie's folks 
And engage herself with them at cracking their jokes; 
Here and there a near neighbor awaits her to pass 
To obtain a fair view of the dear little lass — 
Just a bundle of fiuffery, feathers and down 
And the city-bred sweetheart of dear Willie Brown. 

Oh, the dear little strolls through the bowers for hours 
While she makes her debut with the cattle and flowers! 
When she pets and she fondles the dear little calf 
Do the pigs and the chickens and turkeys all laugh? 
Such a bundle of fiuffery, feathers and down 
And the city-bred sweetheart of dear Willie Brown! 

Such a dear little country with dear little hills 

And the dear little birds with their dear little trills! 

Such dear little rambles to pass with a whirl 

In the company of such a dear little girl — 

Just a bundle of fiuffery, feathers and down 

And the city-bred sweetheart of dear Willie Brown! 

December, 1906- 



LITTLE WILD HEART. 

Merry, merry Little Wild Heart, 

"Wilt thou hasten unto me? 
When I seek thee mid the blossoms 

Thou art sporting 'neath the tree; 
When I seek thee in the woodland 

Thou art strolling on the lea — 
Idle, merry, roving Wild Heart, 

Well you know I'm seeking thee! 

Coy, provoking Little Wild Heart, 

Fairy, airy are thy feet; 
When I think them treading to me 

That I may thee kindly greet, 
Surely, surely, somewhere distant 

Thou art plucking blossoms sweet; 
Thou art always from me fleeing, 

Flying with thy fairy feet. 

Laughing, independent Wild Heart, 

Now so lightly, spritely free. 
Not until thy heart be broken 

Shalt thou surely come to me; 
Little Wild Heart, my own Mild Heart 

I shall gladly welcome thee. 
But before thy heart be breaking 

Come, oh, quickly come to me! 

February 20, 1908. 



16 



A MAN NOW. 

Oh, Tim has got a sweetheart — 
How do you think I know? 

A charming daily greet-heart — 
There's something tells me so! 

He is so very different, 

So changed; 'tis very, very plain 
His mind is of a newer bent; 

He is both chivalrous and vain. 

He treats his mother with regard; 

His air, his very thoughts are kind; 
He's wide awake, his vision marred 

By no past negligence of mind. 

He's manly, his whole carriage straight; 

Upon his forehead sports a curl— 
Oh, all his actions here of late 

Speak plainly of some pretty girl! 

He wears a locket and a chain 
Enchanted with a dreaming dove, 

I'm sure. 'Tis very, very plain 
That Timothy is deep in love. 

Yes, Tim has got a sweetheart — 
Now, don't you think I know? 

A charming, daily greet-heart — 
There's something tells me so. 

January 15, 1911. 



!« 



GOURDS. 

For ages have the poets laved 

In perfumes that the fields afford, 

Nor ever sang of the depraved, 
Unorthodox but useful gourd. 

Aggressive, pushing this way, that, 

Revolting to the finer sense, 
Insatiate — its habitat 

The pickets of the backyard fence. 

Imbued with meager traits of pride — 

But strong in duty's enterprise — 
It swings three dippers side by side. 

Three flagons fine as gods devise. 

Yon specie bears a large spheroid- 
Slice off the top, you have a bowl, 

A sugar trough, a spacious void, 
Or, if you will, a casserole. 

Beside it hangs a smaller mate; 

Just chip its side and hang it low — 
Watch Tommy Wren come dedicate 

In ecstacies that come and go. 

Here hangs a brace of clubs — a stroke 

From one of which, well aimed would smash 

A wolf stone cold. Want a cool smoke? 
Then draw it through this Calabash. 

This nook is Novelty Display — 

Select yourself a souvenir; 
A Luffa dish cloth packed away, 

A baby's rattle, pseudo pear. 

A nest egg that will suit as well 

As one that biddy laid herself; 
A darning ball, a kewpie bell, 

A Turkish turban for jour shelf. 

Now, when we've sung the songs we've known. 

Played all that memory affords. 
Are we so vain we would not prone 

Attend an orchestra of gourds? 

January 13, 1920. 



"EVERYBODY LOVES A LOVER." 

"Everybody loves a lover" 

Has been said, and wisely well; 
Cynics pause, salute, uncover 

To the magic of his spell. 

Everybody loves a lover! 

Near his warm heart brimming over 
All would closely nestle, hover 

In the spray as bees the clover — 
Everybody loves a lover. 

Everybody loves a lover — 

Armorless and unafraid 
Walks he, never seeking cover, 

Faithful, gentle, fearless, staid. 

Everybody loves a lover — 

Love turns back the vagrant, rover, 

Long-lost heart-keys doth recover — 
He is like the wide world over! 

Everybody loves a lover. 

March 8, 1916 



EARTH'S HEAVENLY TIES. 

Earth's heavenly ties— my spu-it-boon, 
My covenant my heart's elite, 

Life-beacons for me fitly strewn 
On pathways safest for my feet; 

My monitor of love and truth, 

My mentor of true beauty's worth, 

God's moulder of my plastic youth — 
Synthetic bond of heaven and earth. 

So much of heaven binds me here, 
So much I love escapes beyond — 

I may go thither without fear 
Of danger to their sacred bond. 

Each day grows earth more sweetly young, 
Old friendships deal me new surprise; 

Beyond the tomb today is sung 

God's praises to earth's heavenly ties. 



Jan. 15, 1914. 



19 



TO THE BRIDEGROOM. 

Oh, take her, though always remembering this, 
That beautiful, pure and unsullied she is. 
She weds you because you are stalwart and strong 
And willing to guard her whole life against wrong. 

You love her for whatever else you are not; 
She loves you — about you i-evolves all her thought; 
By nature and love you not longer are twain 
And, bound by these ties, may you ever remain. 

Now, be this your innermost pleasure of mind, 
Though spanning the earth, that you ever shall find, 
That for you, through girlhood to womanhood grown, 
A mother has taught her — still calls her her own. 

And whatever hence for you both be in store — 
Of good or of ill — she is yours for e'ermore 
To guard and to keep though remembering this. 
That beautiful, pure and unsullied she is. 

March, 1907. 



20 



INSEPARABLE, 

Is there a pathway each wherein walk Joy and Sorrow' 
Where are their goals? Where do their pilgrimages end? 

May they move side by side today though not tomorrow, 
Or do they always hand in hand together wend? 

The youthful yearn and strive for pleasure unrelenting, 
Dire Poverty would Sorrow's stinging pangs destroy; 

Sin, bowing down beside his ashes and repenting, 
Doth seek communion with the peace of pious Joy. 

Within the changeful woi'ld there is so much to suffer. 

Of life to live, of care, of death, of grief, to bear. 
And Joy estranged doth only make the pathway rougher 

Where Fate deals out unduly tearful Sorrow's share- 
Where there is comfort there is always burden-bearing 

Fair Youth has never been without untimely loss; 
Beneath her mantle Gladness aptly may be wearing 

The tear-stained symbol of a heart-imbedded cross. 

November 14, 1907. 



THE GIFT OF GIFTS. 

O, love of Loves, O, Gift supreme! 

So free, so fair- — of priceless worth; 
A jewel plucked from heaven's gleam 

To light the mutitudes of earth! 
O, Gift of gifts — ^O, praise the Giver 

P"'or His deep, undying love; 
O, parent true, to give, deliver 

Heaven's heart down from above! 

To be remembei'ed! O, the joy 

Of this to all who kiss the rod! 
And to remember! Blest employ 

In this dear sentiment of God! 
Whatever gift, or small however, 

Given in the Savior's name, 
Bespeaks a joy to last forever, 

Down eternity the same. 

December 22, 1920. 



22 



GRIEF. 

See the patient, strong man weeping 
With a flow of galling tears; 

One great torrent is now sweeping 
Down his battlement of years. 

Kissing each, he, warm enfolding 
All with two-fold tenderness, 

Weeping, prays, the whole beholding 
All his children motherless. 



A MOTHER'S A MOTHER'. 

A mother's a mother this mighty world over 

Whatever of hope or dismay; 
Though her child be a model, delinquent or rover, 

A mother's a mother for aye. 
Though fortune wait kindly or pass to another, 

Omitting her own by the way, 
She's ever, oh, ever the same loving mother — 

A mother's a mother for aye. 

January 25, 1907. 



28 



AN AUTUMN TWILIGHT. 

The great-mouthed chimney, tow'ring 'mid the trees 

Has swallowed up the last day-farer of the sky; 

In zig-zag, mystic course the dragon fly 
Pursues Its prey; with noiseless bounds and ease 
Toad-sentries move adown the walk and seize, 

Now left, now right, poor beetles blund'ring by; 

Small strident voices fill the hush; the cry 
Of one lone night-bird stabs the stilly breeze. 

From some neglected field drifts o'er a whisk 
Of thistle-down; one bold star peeps; the moon. 
Long pallid, blushes at her anxious naste 
To woo departing light; a lively frisk 
Of melody akin to ancient rune. 

Floats by the day into the dark'ning waste. 



Dec. 18, 1910. 



24 



LOVE IN A BUNGALOW. 

Princes and palaces, peoples and powers — 
Where might I find us a shelter like ours! 
Happily, happily, days come and go — 
Life and true love in a dear bungalow. 

Hard drive the lances of cold winter-rain 
Shattering low on the front window-pane; 
Heartlessly restless and tireless winds blow 
High o'er the roof of our warm bungalow. 

Fretting eaves fondly pursuade me to rest, 
Love lulls a babe on her innocent breast — 
Not in the world do more cherished hopes glow, 
Love and a life in a dear bungalow. 

Soon shall the casements stand open for hours 
Drenched with the perfumes of many May flowers; 
Up in the sugar-tree soon shall o'erflow 
Oriole's heart to our low bungalow. 

Princes and palaces, peoples and powers — 
Where might I find us a shelter like ours! 
Happily, happily, years come and go — 
Life and true love in a dear bungalow. 

—Nov. 21, 1910. 



26 



A POET'S FAITH. 

When the beacons of twilight through infinite shine 

Have, at last, won the heart of the wanderer home — 
When the quest of far reaches and terraced incline, 

The tide-riven reefs mid the coral sea foam; 
When the lure of the limelight of station and name, 

Have worn the blood tired, all its vagrancy wrung. 
The low, glowing vigils of home shall upflame. 

In the calm of whose glory my songs shall be sung. 

When the heart beats with gladness at lisping of trees, 

The plaint of a songster, a rivulet's trill; 
When the ear learns to listen to numberless glees 

Of muffled, low voices that constantly fill 
The great dome of sunshine, the temples of night; 

When the soul accepts grief when dread sorrow be flung 
Adrift in life's sea, never out of sight quite, 

The health of God's wealth to my songs shall be sung. 

Dec. 3. 1913. 



26 



THE DARKEST HOUR IS JUST BEFORE DAWN. 

The night is young, the firmament is bright 
"With vising stars, low moon — yet it is night — 
And, ceaseless, down the vistas of the deep 

The jetsam sinks to beds of weed and spawn; 
The stars go out, the flotsam wildly leaps — 

"The darkest hour is just before the dawn." 

Far out, far out, the sea is darkly dim 
Where great hulks hide on the horizon's rim; 
Nor yet doth morn in robe of silver plaque 

Lift at night's curtain all too tightly drawn; 
Before me drift the flotsam and the wrack — 

"The darkest hour is just before the dawn." 

I watch here on this fragile bit of shore 
For ligan that may pass once but no more; 
No friendly mast shall speak me from the sea 

Because the ship is wreck, my cargo pawn 
Upon the surf and held in trust for me — 

Though dark the hour, " 'tis just before the dawn." 

Feb. 6. 1915. 



27 



THE BOYS IN KHAKI. 

Beloved! Boys of the Khaki Line! 

Oh, sons of Freedom, young and fair, 
We worship at your sacred shrine, 

Erect, attentive — foreheads bare! 

To you, through us, our noble sires 

Bequeathed the warmest blood that flows — 

The blood that toils and never tires 
And smites destruction on our foes. 

So long as Wrong asserts his might 
And Gospel Truth pervades the earth. 

Your sons of sons shall groom and fight 
And herald on your sterling worth. 

Columbia, your mother heart 

Has ached and felt the sharpest pain; 
Your lids have burned with keenest smart 

But never son has died in vain. 

Invincible the Khaki Line! 

Brave Boys, we fare forth unafraid — 
We worship at your sacred shrine — 

Lord bless the peace that you have made. 



January 1, 1921. 



IMPEDIMENTS 

A swimmer fears no tragedy 

Nor peril haunts his brain — 
A basking bit of revelry 

Upon the surface lain. 
But clutch him foul around his neck 

When you are going down, 
And do not reck his saving beck, 

The two of you will drown. 

A lark, retreating from the heat. 

Disports in shady pool. 
And when bedraggled head to feet, 

Sits dripping clean and cool. 
He preens his feathers o'er and o'er 

Till they are light and dry 
That he may soar and bear once more 

His message to the sky. 

Stripped free of all impediments 

Till, lean, I take the tide, 
My sustenance the elements, 

I would in safety ride. 
Soul-washed of this proud universe 

Redundant with its wrong, 
I'd fling a verse to every curse 

But make for Love a song. 



June 25, 1921 



MARION 

If you would see America 

By auto or by rail, 
Put her on your itinery 

Before you hit the trail. 

Majestic and sublime she stands, 

All spick and span as law, 
Be-ribboned round with silver sands 

Of Mississinewa. 

Her many structures staunch and tall, 

Imposing in design, 
Rise up in an unbroken wall 

In straight and tacit line. 

Tall spires and belfries lifting clear 

Fret many miles of sky. 
And funnels belching murks that veer 

Are everywhere nearby. 

On far horizon darkly dim. 

Pulsating day and night, 
Great engines draw from deep within 

The earth the oils of might. 

Want eats and other kitchen things. 

Or glassware up-to-date — 
Or shoes — or stoves — Oh, fiddle strings! 

They "make 'em while you wait." 

Now, when the open roads allure 

You on big rounds of travel, 
See Marion, Indiana, sure. 

Before you yuit the gravel. 

December 15, 1921 



so 



A PIONEER HORSELESS CARRIAGE 

A queer, grayish wagon is making the rounds 
Without any horses, yet onward it bounds — 
A s^^range looking aspect to go by itself 
And truckle along like a wandering elf. 

The witch has climbed off of her smoooth running car 
And bettered herself, it is certain, by far. 
Because she may travel new ways with an ease 
That suits her queer fancy, and flirt with the breeze. 

An heirloom, her broomstick she willed to the wind, 
Took all other chattels and left that behind. 
Believer in omens, today, as of yore 
The witch may be pranking in front of your door. 

The children look eager, are curious, half-wild — 
So odd is this wagon and curiously styled 
To rant o'er the earth like an unbitted steed 
Without ever tiring or slacking its speed! 

I've seen this queer wagon go by, now it's twice — 
I'd buy one, I'm certain, if I had the price; 
My neighbors all worry to feed a matched pair 
But witches can live on the thinnest of air. 

About 1895. 



81 



OUR OCCIDENTAL HABIT. 

A tribute to the surgeon's list 

Of vitals taken out; 
A banquet to the specialist 

Who grooms us strong and stout— 
We foot the bills of all our ills 
And then resume the gait that kills. 

A medal for the science lord, 
Who lands a deadly germ; 

Another to his sovereign ward, 
Whose toxin makes it squirm; 

The doctor stills us vs^ith his pills 

Then we resume the gait that kills. 

To new restoratives, salute! 

We'll pay you for them well; 
We'd manacle the smart galoot 

Who checks our flying spell — 
A mint and mills to all our frills, 
A jolly for the gait that kills. 

November 25, 1912. 



82 



COMPENSATION. 

Much work I do doth yield me naught; 

Although with righteous, whole intent 
Upon the valued thing I wrought 
Bctime with failure I am frought. 

My labor vainly spent. 

I sow but ofttimes lightly reap — 

Reap less than all the sowing cost; 
Or, reaping heavy, at a sweep 
My bounty fails; I little keep 

Till that, by chance, be lost. 

From shining bits of fancies old 

I work a picturesque design 
To me a comfort to behold; 
Though princely be my Cloth of Gold 

It yields no wealth condign. 

In labor's sphere lies my domain 
That wherefore are my hands; 
True motive and right-thinking brain 
Work elements of final gain 
And hasp life's parted strands. 

June 11, 1910. 



A QUARTET OF MERCY. 

Commemorating the departure of Dr. A. P. Roope, Dr. Thorne, 
Miss Elenor Ryan and Mr. Reginald Galligan, for the front in the 
great World War. 

They heard a voice, 'twas France imploring aid; 

Do what she will she can not staunch her flow 

Of blood alone; gigantic is her foe. 
The leprosy of German lust has made 
Its torturous advance; the tainted blade 

Of Bismarck reeks with Galic blood although 

Poor France has done no wrong; the stifling blow 
Of murder failed — the victim's faith is staid. 

They went to help poor multi-wounded France, 
Help bandage up her gaping shell-torn flesh — 
Help nurse her back to health and liberty; 
Her God is theirs; they went to help enhance 
The day of her deliverance — unleash 

Whom Lafayette, alive, would die to free. 

February 7, 1918. 



34 



TO A SUBTERRANEAN FLOWER 

A hyacinth grown in an old, abandoned electric-lighted mine. 

Oh, thou fragrant, waxen, snowy-petaled flower, 

Hyacinthine queen of thy adored race — 
True to all thy excellence this wintry hour 

Perfect in all points of thy resplendent grace! 

Wert thou weary waiting on slow-footed Time? 

Wert thou lonely? Why thus so inopportune? 
Hast thou found an everlasting vernal clime 

Prom the bitter changes of this earth immune? 

Whither shall I go, or whereat meekly wait. 

Biding time as thou hast done through ages past. 

To obtain the title of a safe estate 

Where there blows no blighting, cutting, wintry blast? 

Even so, if I shall serve my fellow men. 

Being loved as thou art well beloved of them, 

I shall live protected throughout change, and then 
Wear, as crystal pure, a worthy diadem. 

May 4, 1907. 



85 



A WINTER LULLABY 

Took-chook! took-chook! the melting snow 
Slips off the roof and falls below 
And, in the barrel plashing, leaves 
A wintry gurgle 'neath the eaves. 

Mew! mew! the kitten by the fire 
Wakes up and stretches one length nigher 
And, purring to the yellow gleams, 
He glides away to cat-land dreams. 

Chirp! chirp! the cricket 'neath the jar 
Calls up his mate in corner far 
And, skipping through the mellow light. 
They start the drama for the night. 

Stitch! stitch! and, soft as melting snow, 
Her busy hand moves to and fro; 
Her face is brighter than the beam — 
My lullaby has brought its dream. 

Took-chook! took-chook! the melting snow 
Slips off the roof and falls below; 
Contented musings through me creep 
And, in my chair, I'm — fast asleep. 

January', 1906 



86 



THE UNFINISHED TIDY. 

"A Merry Christmas," it would read 
If it were done. By chance, the need 

Of rest caused her to lay it by; 
She folded it aside to heed 

A neighbor's want, perhaps — could I 
But know the real reason why! 

"A Merry Christmas," bled her heart 
Into the blaze of queenly art — 

A burning wish surviving time 
To all who hold the Christ a part — 
Good will to all and as sublime 
As any truth wove into rhyme. . 

Down through the cloth and up and out 
Her needle rests secure without 

Her hand to ply it with its thread. 
Unfinished now, it lies about 

Mid flosses yellow, green and red 
To voice the love of her now dead. 

As deft a hand might weave the floss 
To sheen as soft as woodland moss 
Till "Merry Christmas" it has said; 
But they would be mere words of dross 
Of satins yellow, green and red. 
That speak no language of the dead. 



June 11, 1921 



37 



REBA 

Oh, beautiful^ — how beautiful was morn 
When spring shoolt out an early lily-bell 
And God set her upon our earth to dwell! 

He fashioned her like that fair flower born 

Of light. "This sweet child-blossom shall adorn 
My treasured garden spot; a lingering spell 
Of beauty she shall cast," said He, "and tell 

My love to those who pass by her forlorn." 

In time full brief He said, "Lest winds blow chill 
Too long and blight My bloom, go bring it Me; 
'Tis marked 'God's Lily,' full of grace, attired 
In spacious splendor; angels, hear My will." 
The sister lilies wept of perfume free — 
Through tears we sighted heaven and admired. 

March 24, 1913. 



IMPERIAL NIGHT. 

There's no dominion known of light 
Surpasses fine Imperial Night; 
Her peopled glades, 'mid softest shades, 
Awake, when evening's sunlight fades. 
On couches, scented, filmy, bright. 

A holy peace of love pervades 
The fields, the moonlit colonnades 
Of sycamore, on either shore 
Of Driftwood's water slipping o'er 
The rippled sands and rocky grades. 

Hers is a many-jeweled crown 

Of heavenly light which, streaming down 

Her tresses rare — her sovereign hair, 

Entrancing features debonair. 

Makes halo where the shadows frown. 

The callow hills of day are fair 
In capes crocheted of dewy air 
An astral light — a regal sight, 
Gift of the queen, Imperial Night, 
From boudoir fiush as Ophir glare. 

Meandering as the poet strays, 
I feel the import of her gaze; 
The drowsy spot where sits my cot 
Is lost to me, all things forgot 
Save lure of Night's Imperial lays. 



February 26, 1913. 



s» 



BABY MAXINE 

From the far-away land of Forget-Me-Not, 

Of love and of themes of poetry, 
With her pet of a mouth like a cherry dot, 
My baby came to me. 

From the land of the Lilies and Chubby Arms 

And the Silken Hair, my baby came 
With her blue, true eyes of a thousand charms. 
And Maxine is her name. 

Oh, bless thee, dear land of Forget-Me-Not, 

For the lily wee hands that so harmless be, 
And the true, blue eyes that do wonder what 
Brings all this joy to me. 



Sept. 10, 1916 



40 



THE IRWIN GARDEN. 

The gate stands open. Here, in tranquil ease, 
Otie breathes a different air. The throbbing mart 
Does not disturb. The excellence of art 

Is lost — forgotten. The perfumes on the breeze 

Gush out from God's own fount. Here it doth please 
The lily and the rose, on lavish part. 
To void their chalices to aching heart 

And cheer it over weary lands and seas. 

Cool dells and pools; brown heathery wall; 
Rich coverlets of bright cerulean blue; 
White banks of bloom; green bowery glen; 

Stone flights; vine-clad pergolas — ^over all 
Bronze monarch of the jungle reigning- through 
His epoch — God's and man's good will to men! 

October 17, 1920. 



41 



THE STRANDED DELEGATE. 

Melinda's kitchen; Gods of Shere Kan! 

And by my Pneumo— Gastric nerve 
I am a weary, hungry man! 

Beefstakes with their onion toga; 

Jersey milk and Saratoga — 
I'm shrunken like an Arctic lichen 
Ninety miles from Melinda's kitchen! 

The flurry's over; I'm a Bander-Log 
If I don't say that I am glad — 

No, waiter, I couldn't eat a pollywog! 
Bring me more just like your sample. 
Give me good meal, warm and ample; 

(Nothing could this hour enrichen 

Like the scent of Melinda's kitchen). 

Melinda's kitchen! Epicurean bliss! 
Just mark me down a ninny, sir. 

But Melinda knows what I now miss — 
Cooking of the highest merit, 
Kitchen smacks from board to garret, 

But here I am as lank as a lichen 

Ninety miles from Melinda's kitchen. 

Feb. 12, 1»07. 



42 



A HOLIDAY. 

Forsaking the office and tumult 

Foi- one idle, coveted day, 
I hie to the bank of the streamlet 

That hastes through the meadow away. 

Beneath the broad maple the cattle 
Do ruminate through the long hours 

Quite listless of freedom and gladness 
Mid pasture-lands spangled with flowers. 

I pause in the shade of the maple 
Selecting sweet thoughts while I rest, 

And think of a youthful betrothal, 
A sunny head near to my breast; 

Of eyes with fond merriment rippling, 

Surveying the arc at my fe'^+. 
As standing beneath the green maple 

She gave the reply I repeat: 

" 'Tis hard to cease being your sweetheart, 
So hard to give up such a life — 

If I could be sweetheart forever 
I surely would never be wife." 

But by me is Ernestine standing 

Prepared for a day on the lea; 
She wed me in youth's sunny weather, 

My sweetheart forever is she. 

I'll ask her to lean on my bosom. 
Like her sunny head rested before. 

And we'll stay till the cattle at even 
Obey the dear call from the door. 

Revised May 1, 1908. 



43 



FIDELITY. 

It may be long, though maybe not- 

I'd marry him today; 
His presence means a happy spot 

Where're he choose to stay; 
His heart's a chalice love-a-brim, 
I pledge me now I'll wait for him. 

Tomorrow I could reign the queen 
Of mansion void of blot— 

I scorn pretentious lofty mien 
Where true love tarries not 

Nor lingers long o'er platter rim — 

'Tis love I crave; I'll wait for him. 

He's young and he will conquer yet; 

I'll grow not old but fair— 
His bride-elect! This epaulet 

Of rose for him I wear; 
He owns my heart, my Toiler trim- 
By all that's true, I'll wait for him. 

—Feb. 11, 1914. 



44 



The answer of a Shortridgre High School graduate. 
1906, to a reporter on the Indianapolis News which 
was elaborated upon therein is the source of the 
origin of "Careering." She bitterly opposed "career- 
ing." This is her reply reduced to rythmic narration. 

CAREERING. 

They offered her fabulous sums for her face. 
Her treasure of voice and her womanly grace; 
In the glare and the glamour she bartered and sold 
Herself for the stipulate value of gold. 

They took her and praised her to people of note; 
lu the dazzle of cities they set her afloat; 
From the grandeur and halo of magazine page 
Her picture did, everywhere, herald the stage. 

Folks came to her city from farthest-off town 
To witness the actress of clever renown — 
To hear her and see her theatrical pose 
In flutters of brilliancy rich to disclose. 

She gathered her laurels, emblazoned her name 
On the tablet of lights of theatrical fame. 
But her youth and its beauty she bartered and sold 
For recompense measured in values of gold. 

Compressing life's largess in space of few years. 
Suppressing her laughter and forcing her tears 
Till the fount of her spirit is drained and is dry. 
She stops shoi't a-weary — is ready to die. 

Admired though, but childless, she sinks to her grave. 
No flesh of her flesh her rare beauty to save; 
No place in the world save the dead niche of art. 
No uppermost place in one manly man's heart. 

November, 1906. 



46 



WHEN ERNESTINE LOOKS PRETTIEST. 

When Ernestine looks prettiest 

'Tis in her blue-checked gingham gown 

Ironed to a charm, 
A basket lightly weighing down 

Her shapely arm. 

When Ernestine looks prettiest 
Is when her bonnet nodding low 

Above the green 
Betrays the spots where ripest grow 

The fruits unseen. 

When Ernestine looks prettiest 
No artist can my pleasure mock 

While, as she wills, 
Hand moving steady as a clock. 

Her basket fills. 

When Ernestine looks prettiest 
Her basket gleams with gold and red; 

I do aver 
The vision shames the pansy-bed 

I made for her. 

When Ernestine looks prettiest 

'Tis 'mong my vines when, crooning sweet 

The songs of old, 
She plucks from out my garden neat 

Fruits red and gold. 

—August 9, 1910. 



40 



TRANSITION. 

She went not far. I saw her go — depart 
For realm of rest. I saw her slip away 
Across the dewy morn; she went to stay 

In her long-sought abode. Sweet years of heart 

And love she left behind. She loathed to part 
With toil, but, lo! her feet would not obey 
Her will. Too tired to greet the new-born day 

The wings of morning folded her apart. 

We say she's gone. But down the garden path 
I see her bend anil breathe a tenderness 
About the flowers she loved, nor naught doth mar 
The bright celestial robe she wears. She hath 
No attribute of earth yet doth caress 
My sodden pillow-— Heaven's not so far. 



August, 1920. 



47 



A PRAYER. 

O, Lord, dear Lord, our Lord, 

Help us to consecrate 
Our lives anew. Accord 

Us Thy love. Create 
Within us high esteem 

For our dear fellow men. 
Thou, Lord, who didst redeem 

Us, hear us once again. 

O, help us blot out self, 
Snuff out each evil thought. 

Think less and less of pelf 
And love Thee as we ought; 

Help carry on until 
We win Thy Grand Award — 

O, help us say, "Thy will 

Be done, Thou blessed Lord." 

November 8, 1920. 



48 



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